Dragonsdeath
by rhnsz
Summary: Two Weyrs, their alliance torn asunder by circumstance. A freak who is struggling for acceptance. A disease that threatens the very existence of dragonkind. A story of how hard times touch normal people. Rated for sexual references.
1. A note on the text

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A note on the text

Despite author Anne McCaffrey's vehement pleas for the contrary, the hit science fiction series _The Dragonriders of Pern_ has inspired many to breach the copyright laws so firmly installed. Many fans of the series have decided to sit down and do what I am about to begin the process of doing: write a piece of fanfiction. I take no shame in the fact that I am indeed breaching Ms McCaffrey's precious laws as I sit here and type these words. I am one of the many with the firm belief that there is no greater compliment to a writer's work than a good, well thought out and canon fanfic. I'm not sure about crossovers and such – I don't think they're really much of a compliment, personally. But if a writer of fanfiction adheres to the plot and ambiance of a book or series, then there surely cannot be higher praise.

It is interesting to note, however, that I have not entirely spoken the truth. For if one were to stand back and witness all the breaches of these copyright laws for this series alone, they would soon realise that there is a relatively small portion of fanfiction within that total. Indeed, most people believe that, while partaking what is probably the largest culmination of copyright law breaches ever, steering away from certain minor aspects of these laws makes it all acceptable. I am, of course, talking about the NetPern role-playing universe, of which I was once and intend to be again part of.

I choose the word universe intentionally. The accepted term in this context is generally _community_. However, that word simply does not cover the hundreds upon hundreds of NetPern role-players out there. For those not in the know, as I was not two years before I wrote this page, role-playing is in essence a user creating a character whom they guide with words in a world of certain design, with the aim simply to live a second life as that character. It doesn't sound much fun, but I can assure you, a good community can achieve addictiveness, fun, skill and a strong communal feel that sets the role-players logging on for sometimes hours daily.

On a certain server (I will not name it here, but I will freely direct anyone who emails me to its URL), NetPern runs riot. It essentially divides the community that thrives off this server into two groups: DRoPpers and anti-DRoPpers. DRoPpers are, of course, those who either play or support _Dragonriders of Pern_ role-plays. Anti-DRoPpers are against them. But there is a very sad reason why anti-DRoPpers exist, and that is the divide between two sections of DRoPpers.

The common term "n00b" must come into play here, for that is the first of the two groups I will speak of: the n00bs. I won't give them a more specific name, because this is not a subject many address openly. It's taboo, in a way. One name springs to mind as the single worst offender on this server. I won't name her, but she told me once that she owned over 30 RP sites. I will shamelessly say that I struggled to maintain one. Every single one of her sites that I ever saw was DRoP, with exactly the same layout, an almost identical array of myriad stupid mutations available for Impression, and the one that I joined lasted for a grand total of one week. The role-play was based solely around Impression, and once the Hatching was over, everyone automatically vanished. Such is a prime example of what I call the n00bs of NetPern.

The other group, to which I proudly transferred after about a month, was the decent RPers who also happened to love DRoP. One well-managed, active, long-lasting site to an RPer _maximum_. Role-play that extended well beyond the basic realms of Impression, mating flights and Threadfall, and delved into human relationships and plot progression. And of course, the prettiness of the site was always a plus.

No _Dragonriders of Pern_ fan is an anti-DRoPper to my knowledge. But a good number of anti-DRoPpers could be fans. I personally converted a few, and I know full-well that this is exactly the predicament that Ms McCaffrey was trying to avoid with her laws. This is what I am trying to do my bit to cure with the writing of this fic.

I am taking three of the most over-used, poorly done and overall n00bish plot lines that suck the life from NetPern on that server, and attempting to do them well. Trying to show people that this horrible torture of a brilliant series is entirely unnecessary, and that there would be no need to live in fear of the wrath of Anne McCaffrey's beloved laws if the fanbase gave the series good press.

Wish me luck.

~Rhnsz


	2. Chapter One

The first time I really ever paid that much attention to the dragons and their riders was when I heard about the black dragon.

It was big news, I can tell you. Really big. I think the people of Southern Ridge Weyr tried to cover it up, or at least to smother the uproar a little. It's kind of hard to hide a huge black beast that flies around the skies of Pern and is the same size as a small bronze, though. Especially when the dragons of Pern are such incurable gossips. But no, I don't think any Weyr could dull a commotion of that magnitude. Holders are notoriously fidgety people, easily upset. And the birth of a new breed of dragon? What could cause a greater stir?

Not since the white Ruth has a dragon of unusual colour been born. That caused small riots in some Holds, according to the records. But Ruth was small. He was underdeveloped, and was never going to live past a Turn. By the time people realised this was not the case and that he would indeed grow to assist his rider Jaxom in finding AIVAS, they'd calmed down.

A black dragon, for a number of reasons, was far more upsetting.

There came, with time, an explanation to Ruth's odd colouring. Immediately people searched for a reason for the dark hide of the black beast, but none could be found, and it was disturbing. As well as this, black is the colour of night, of char and decay. A bad colour by all accounts. Why people thought this was such a big factor, I didn't know and frankly didn't care. Green is the designated unlucky colour, and green dragons have existed from the very beginning. Surely that would be even worse than a black dragon? But no, people are strange like that.

The main thing was, however, Diarth's size. The smarter of the Weyrfolk noticed the problem here immediately, and eventually the information leaked to those who could understand in the Holds.

He was big, strong and healthy. He would live, and grow large. He was significantly more agile than most bronzes, easily making up for what little he lacked in size. Basically, he was able to catch a queen, and so whatever mutation had occurred in his genes would most likely carry on to the dragons he spawned. Not only that, but by law, the rider of this freak would also become Weyrleader if this happened. D'ryn, the black rider, didn't have much of a reputation as leadership material. It was a scary thought that he might become the master of one of the most successful Weyrs on Pern.

This is where the story begins.

Great roiling clouds rolled slowly in from the east. The wind, already blowing steadily, picked up into a powerful gale, bending trees where they stood and sending leaves scattering. Normally tame waves pounded the sandy shore when they hit their mark and crashed through the Seraph River when they missed, carrying salt and foam far deeper into the seaward-flowing river than usual.

Within Southern Ridge Hold, business was carrying on much as usual, despite the oncoming storm. It was obvious that this was a regular water-cloud, for no silver hazed the horizon. No Thread meant the inescapable continuation of work here in this minor fishing hold.

In truth, Southern Ridge had relatively little business in the craft it claimed itself to be part of. Certainly, as a seaside hold it did fish moderately, but very little of the catch was exported. Most stayed here, some went to Southern Ridge Weyr, but only the tiniest bit went to other holds. There were more successful fishing holds out there, and it was bad business to compete when one could cater for an entirely different clientele. And so this is just what the late Lord Adiren of Southern Ridge did: supported the formation of the business of shipcrafting.

Some of the finest ships on Pern rocked alarmingly in their docked position near the shore as the storm approached. It was generally well-known that if any ship was to stay afloat in a storm, it was a Southern Ridge ship (or Ridger, as they were more commonly known), but the way they quite nearly tipped onto their sides in the wind made for a frightful sight.

Nonetheless, those inside the Hold's walls were relatively unaffected by the presence of the approaching storm. It wasn't an uncommon thing. They were a famously hardy and hale group, the Ridgers, just as their ships. Though they huddled up against a jacket or something else warming as they walked, many were indeed leaving the comforts of home to run an errand or such. 

And so, of course, Sehrem stood out a mile.

He always did, though it was not ever his desire. Even walking as one of the crowd, he would be like a magnet to most onlookers' eyes. He did naught to draw eyes to himself. He had a stooped posture and utterly silent disposition, and yet he was well-known here, not by name, but certainly by face.

While it was just about certain that every Ridger had a darkened complexion, it was not a natural trait, but rather a side effect of prolonged exposure to the Rukbat's rays. Sehrem, on the other hand, was naturally dark of skin, with an even and unchanging olive tone, deep eyes of dark brown and short, near-black hair. It was an oddity on Pern to look as he did, with a slightly flattened nose, small but full mouth, and strange singly folded eyelids.* While his lack of great stature was not remarkable in itself, his short, slender and dark countenance made him known as the _little shadow_. It was not a name meant kindly.

Sehrem sat now in the dirt beside the cobbled road, staring blankly at the dust as it sped across the surface, spurred on by the wind. Leaves danced in front of his vision, jumping along the cobblestone with tiny cracking noises. As usual, grim thoughts entered his mind. This time, it was an observation of the life these leaves appeared to have in their movement.

__

But it's not real life, he thought with the cold detachment he felt at all times. _An empty promise given by the fickle wind, always taken away, and quickly._ As if to prove his point, the wind died down momentarily, between gusts, and the dry autumn leaves came to a twitching rest. Soon the wind had returned, however, and the leaves were carried down the road once more, clinging to the invisible and unreliable hope that shifted it.

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Not all life is real.

Before his eyes the world gradually darkened, and before long spots of darker hue began to appear in sparse numbers on the street. As more and more came into view, he began to feel the cold prick of rain on his exposed arms. As was so typical in Southern Ridge Hold, it was a matter of moments before Sehrem would not have been able to see an arm's length past his own nose had he raised his head. He did not move, though some others sought shelter from the downpour. He did not see it necessary. And thus again, through lack of any sort of action, he unwittingly made himself noticed.

At the same time, Korelia stood and gazed out across the landscape.

The day was fine and clear. As the sun climbed inexorably from her right to the sky's zenith, light glinted off a barely discernible line on the horizon – the distant ocean. For a Weyr on this continent, it was placed very strangely, inland from the ocean and on the tallest of a range of mountains.

She was south of Southern Ridge Hold. Far south. Much further than even Nerat Hold, which was three main rivers south of Southern Ridge Hold. She was across the ocean, in the southern continent, at much the same longitude. In Southern Ridge Weyr.

Though she had only sixteen Turns to her name, Korelia was senior Weyrwoman of the second youngest and yet third largest Weyr on all of Pern. Even at its young age of nineteen Turns, the Weyr was thriving under the command of its second Weyrwoman and already had three Holds beholden to it: the eldest, Southern Ridge Hold, Keratin Hold, and the nearly Turn-old Shaft Hold. Though Korelia had been in power for less time than Shaft had even been in existence, she was proud to say that she _hadn't_ caused disrepute for her Weyr. Not yet.

But she was beginning to worry that she would soon. No, that was wrong. She'd worried about that from the day of the Impression of her Farith. It had been a momentous day, not only for the joy of a successfully Impressed, healthy young gold in a Weyr that severely lacked such comforts. The entire Weyr had begun to worry about the black dragon that had also hatched from that clutch, and the responsibility for that beast had naturally landed squarely on her inexperienced shoulders.

Diarth had matured with remarkable speed, and had already risen to successfully fly two separate greens. That was all very well and good, with the relationships between the various riders of those dragons completely their own affair. But when a dragon like Diarth was as big as he was... it was all fine if he was just a dark, oversized blue or brown. Greens could not clutch. But what if he managed to fly Farith?

This was her problem. In theory, she should be able to prevent it. But Farith had never risen before. Korelia had no idea how to handle the situation when it came. And it would come very soon. Oh yes, it was just about time for Korelia to get into a relationship more intimate than she had ever experienced before, and most likely with a man she barely knew or liked.

She'd been advised to at least get to know D'ryn, because of the chance that his unusual dragon would catch Farith. She'd put that off, though. She didn't want to get to know the source of her worries and fears. Besides, from what she knew of him, he was a dimglow with regards to social practices, sarcastic, arrogant and nasty. He just wasn't the sort of person she liked as company. Anyway, if she didn't know him as well as the bronzeriders, maybe it would lower Diarth's chance of success. Maybe. She could only hope for a normal flight in the next few days.

She sighed quietly as she turned from the view to head back into her weyr. It was the topmost weyr in the mountain, constantly cold and only accessible on dragonback. With the view she had, it was just as well she was fairly good with heights. But then, if she was afraid of heights, she couldn't be a dragonrider, could she?

Within his own weyr, a way down from the Weyrwoman's, D'ryn was only waking.

He wasn't much of a morning person, really. He'd always woken in the later hours of the morning, with the sun quite high in the sky. He was also very bad at getting to sleep of an evening, but that was of no consequence at the moment.

__

Gooood morning!

D'ryn groaned as the cheery 'voice' spoke loudly in his mind. He might sleep from late until late, but his dragon slept only from about midday until twilight. It wasn't a very good arrangement, and D'ryn always resented the fact that the dragon could be so lively when the rider felt so sluggish.

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Oh, shut up.

At least he didn't have to open his lips to speak to his dragon. It was a blessing and a half. All he could ever manage vocally for the first few moments was a grunt.

__

Now now. That's not very nice.

All right. Good morning then, he amended irritably, wondering where by the first egg his lifemate could be.

__

Better.

The dragon landed then on the lip of the ledge, making himself visible. He'd obviously been out flying somewhere, keeping himself entertained while waiting for his rider to wake. D'ryn rose from his cot, standing on unsteady legs before proceeding to get dressed. He quickly threw on a wher-hide breeches and a coat. The weather was cooling – this would not be unbearably hot any more. Rubbing the blurring from his eyes with a yawn, he turned to face his dragon.

Diarth was waiting impatiently on the ledge, his thin wings half-spread in an instinctive retaliation to the wind that prevailed in these heights. Now _there_ was something D'ryn hadn't noticed before, which was surprising in a way. While the beast's hide was mostly jet-black, the membranous drapings of hide between the claw-like protrusions in his wings were actually a very dark grey. Perhaps that was the true colour of the beast. Probably none would ever know.

D'ryn quickly clambered onto Diarth's ridged neck, and the black dragon turned. He spread his wings – quite an impressive wingspan – and lazily fell from the precipice, only tilting his wings enough to catch the air after a moment of lax freefalling. In wide circles he glided, slowly nearing the dusty ground below. It took a good three minutes of circling before D'ryn decided he was close enough to the ground to just drop from his dragon's back and let the beast get away without bothering to land.

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You're sharding lazy, you know. He righted himself, dusting his hands off on his breeches. It was hard to land on two feet from that sort of height, and quite beyond D'ryn first thing in the morning.

__

No worse than Remyth, Diarth replied with a snort loud enough to be heard as he ascended once more.

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No, but you should be better than Remyth, the black rider replied smugly.

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I am, Diarth retorted before drawing back his mind. It wasn't an easily perceptible thing, the way he did that. It was just a little motion of his conscious mind that signified the end of a conversation.

D'ryn sighed slightly before turning and heading to the kitchens, which were located at the foot of the mountain. As his feet guided him without thought across the dusty yard to the doors of the hall, his mind lingered on the conversation he'd just had with his dragon. A quiet smile formed on his face. Bronze Remyth was Diarth's greatest competition for the position of Farith's mate. His rider, V'lan, had been Weyrleader back when Tiveth had been senior queen and Eilia had been Weyrwoman. Remyth was a very large and arrogant dragon, confident in his proven ability to catch queen dragons. And he hated Diarth with a passion.

It wasn't a common thing, for dragons to hate other dragons. For one to hate anything other than Thread was pretty much unprecedented. But this was the case for Remyth. The worrying thing was that the rest of the mature bronzes in the Weyr – S'nir's Keinth, W'gan's Rath, R'pil's Toguth and M'kar's Halth – all shared that view. It was generally accepted that it was pure jealousy; there had been no competition from other colours in the past for the queen's attention. But D'ryn thought it was something deeper, an instinctive hatred. Not that it worried him that much. Diarth was better than any old bronze, and the black didn't seem phased by the poor sentiment. Nonetheless...

"Good morning, D'ryn. You're up early."

D'ryn stopped, blinking, and noticed where he was standing. He was already through the dining hall, he realised, and was in the heart of the kitchens. A familiar voice had called to him – Lisiel, head mistress of the kitchens.

He turned to his right and his eyes rested on a tall, lithesome woman, dark of feature and clad in loose black cloth. Her back was actually to him, but she was leaning back, soft white hands clinging to the tabletop as she tossed her head back and looked at him in a manner that would make him appear upside down to her eyes. Her long, wavy dark hair fell freely from her head to halfway to the ground, and her pale lips were curved in a grin.

"The early wherry catches the grub," D'ryn replied cheerfully, aware of the pun as he spoke it. He made his way over to her and, passing her completely, peered into the pot in front of her. She straightened as he neared, and made to bat away his hand from her cooking.

"Don't tell me you purposely woke early," she said slyly, a mock scowl cast in his direction.

"Naturally I did," he retorted, craning his neck to catch the aroma that wafted from the open-top pot. It was a stew of sorts, clearly midday meal. "I'm a morning person, you know."

With gentle firmness she pressed her palm to his chest to guide him away from the food. "Well you're too late for breakfast," she told him, a lopsided smile on her face.

He gave her a mournful look. "But it's a good two hours until midday meal!"

Lisiel laughed in her soft fashion. "Oh, all right," she replied with resignation before reaching down to grab a bowl from the cupboard. Swiftly she used a ladle to spoon some of the stew into the bowl, and thrust it in his direction. "Here. Take it."

"Thank you." D'ryn graciously accepted the bowl, then, with a swift kiss for her cheek, he moved out to the dining hall.

It was always empty at this time of day, leaving D'ryn alone with his thoughts as he sat down to eat. He could feel his mind dwelling once again to the problem of Lisiel, and for once he allowed it to remain there. It was a problem he had to sort out some time.

It was clear that the woman had a great deal of affection for him. He was old for a Weyrling, with twenty-four Turns to his name. He hadn't been supposed to Impress. But it was the dragon's choice, and he for one was glad of it. Lisiel had twenty-three, and though she was certainly a beautiful woman, the only reason he allowed her to believe that he shared her feelings was so that he could get this particular meal every day. But that was not the problem. The problem pertaining to her was, of course, Farith's flight in the next few days.

Lisiel had chosen to ignore the fact that Diarth had flown Zeth and Arith. D'ryn didn't know what to think about that little habit of Diarth's. But it had meant that he had taken part in intimate homosexual relations with S'rik and B'len. An... _interesting_ experience, to say the least. Uncomfortable, though, for he had never felt anything but heterosexual attraction before, and still felt no love for either man. Dragon-driven lust was very different to love, as he'd discovered. And Lisiel had chosen to believe just that.

But he knew her fairly well, and could see that this one really counted to her. If Diarth succeeded, it would hurt her. For all D'ryn didn't feel attracted to her, he liked her as a friend, and didn't want her heart to be broken. Plus he wouldn't get this food every morning.

Nonetheless, he did _not_ want Diarth to fail. This was too much of a good thing to miss just for the sake of the short-lived heartache of a cook. Diarth was good enough to catch Farith. Certainly, his mutated genes would probably affect whatever dragons were born, but that was not a problem in D'ryn's point of view. In fact, he thought the presence of multiple black dragons would be beneficial to the Weyr. Surely it couldn't be a bad thing.

Well, they'd all just have to wait and see.

_____________________________________________________________________

* Terran Asian.


	3. Chapter Two

"Well, that's it, I guess. Time to send out the Searchriders."

Miyah nodded in agreement. The clutch before her was fairly big. Many candidates would be required to give the hatchling dragons a good choice. The only way to get enough in time was to begin the Search immediately they were laid – now.

"Yes," she replied in a firm voice. "Yes, send out the riders at once. Direct them to holds we haven't Searched in for a while. Just don't let B'kef go anywhere too hospitable."

For another with a lighter heart, this final statement would have been a jest. B'kef had a way of accepting hospitality too much and drinking just a few too many goblets of wine. It was a joke all around the riders of Coast Weyr. But not for Miyah. She was just not very good with humour, and found it hard to make jokes that were actually funny.

Nonetheless, the man who had first spoken grinned at her. She did not look, but she could see it from the corner of her eye. In fact, she was sure she'd know when this man grinned from a thousand dragonlengths away, she knew him that well. And she let him grin. She was serious, but that didn't mean she was unhappy. Keeping her hazel eyes fixated upon the clutch in front of her, she spoke with somewhat less severity.

"I know this clutch has no gold, T'voc, but I have a good feeling about it nevertheless. Tell them to Search far and wide, and _long_, for good candidates. I want these ones to reach their full potential."

There had been some difficulty with the last clutch. A young holder by the name of R'mas had been Searched for the last one. He'd seemed like perfect bronzerider material: immense potential to be tall and strong, with an easygoing personality and quite a way with the ladies – in fact, he used to have a little too much fun with them. Then he'd gone and Impressed green Linth. R'mas loved his dragon of course, but was extremely upset with the Weyr as a whole for supposedly forcing him into homosexuality. His father, a close friend of Coast Hold's Lord Holder, had beseeched Lord Astaend to take action against Coast Weyr. Though none had been taken, it had been a tense time for all.

T'voc, of course, instantly caught his weyrmate's meaning and, still grinning, draped an easy arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry, Mi. Things will go just fine. I'm sure those who love boys will get the girls this time, if you follow me."

She certainly did follow, and she grinned, leaning into his embrace. No, she couldn't make a jest herself, but she grasped the meanings of jokes and laughed at them, and loved them when they passed T'voc's lips. After a prolonged moment of silence, she sighed and spoke again, this time her voice soft.

"Marzgith's getting quite protective over this one."

T'voc frowned in his strangely cheerful way. "Doesn't she always get protective?" Miyah was about to reply when he spoke again. "Don't _all_ queens get really protective of _all_ their clutches _all_ the time?"

Miyah looked up at him with a mock scowl on her face. Digging her elbow quite forcefully into his stomach, she retorted, "Rolkith's no better! He's always rumbling at any dragon who dares come anywhere _near_ a clutch!"

"Yeah," he whined, rubbing his abdomen, "you didn't have to kill me, though."

Miyah laughed, rubbing his belly vigorously. Then she threw a playful punch at his shoulder, before settling her head back down in the crook of his neck.

"Seriously, though," she continued after a while, "I'm a little worried about this one. There's got to be a reason... she's treating them all like golds."

T'voc sighed heavily. "Maybe she's just wishing they _were_ all golds."

"No!" Miyah replied, half-frustrated, half-amused. "T'voc, I'm concerned. What if some foolhardy candidate or weyrbrat comes a-wandering in, only to be killed by a particularly possessive queen?"

"All right," he replied with exaggerated resignation. "All right. I'll station a few watchdragons on this one. At all entrances," he added, gesturing with a nod of his head to two or three different gaps in the wall to the cavern. Miyah grinned, knowing full-well a weyrbred man like him would have sneaked about in there when he was a lad. His arm then lifted from her shoulders, and she automatically straightened from her reclined position.

"I'd best be off, if I'm supposed to send the Searchriders away immediately."

Miyah nodded silently, and T'voc took his leave. After an instant's pause, she braved the heat and moved out onto the sands. The beast in the centre, a massive golden dragon, lay curled up about a batch of twenty-odd largish eggs. Her huge membranous wings lay spread protectively over the rest, making the complete tally quite impossible to count. The approximated total was forty, however. A decently sized clutch.

As Miyah approached the dragon, Marzgith raised her golden head and fully unlidded her multi-faceted eyes. Miyah did not stop moving – the heat of the sands would have seeped through her shoes if she had – but she stayed in one spot as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She watched the queen with a smile.

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How many are there?

The golden dragon stirred a little, shifting her bulk from one side to the other. _I do not know. I can not count._

Miyah laughed quietly. _I'm sorry,_ she said as Marzgith gazed at her mournfully. _Will you let me count, then?_

All right then. The great white-gold wings were furled to Marzgith's sides to reveal a total of thirty-seven eggs, a great many small enough to be counted only as greens or tiny blues. Only one was large enough to be a bronze or particularly large brown, and there were few in the middling size range. Miyah frowned slightly.

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I thought the clutch was better.

It is a good clutch, Marzgith replied testily.

__

But there is nothing that worthwhile. Why are you so protective?

It is a good clutch, Marzgith replied stoically, and withdrew her mind in that subtle way that signified the fact that she would say no more. With a heavy sigh, Miyah turned and made her way from the sands, partially for lack of any reason to be here, and partially to soothe her now burning feet. There was a lot of work to be done, and lingering around here without cause wasn't about to get them done.

R'til sat on the white sand, legs splayed out in front of him, reclining back on his arms with his hands spread palm-down for support. It was a fine morning with the promise of Thread-free skies, not that he was likely to be called for flight if Thread chose to fall. As little more than a last resort for replacement of riders if one too many were injured, he and Krigeleth weren't even part of a wing. It wasn't a matter of a lack of ability, but rather the presence of too much ability in a different field. Krigeleth was one of only six dragons in the entire Coast Weyr with the proven knack for finding potential candidates. R'til was a Searchrider.

"R'til! Hoy!"

R'til glanced back across the dunes to the advancing figure of none other than the Weyrleader, T'voc. A grin automatically appeared on his sun-darkened face. T'voc was a good Weyrleader, the best, in fact, according to those under his command. He was strong and intelligent, as well as a friend to all he met. He was fair and unbiased when his opinion was required, and generally knew how to inspire loyalty. His Weyrwoman, Miyah, also had the unwavering loyalty of her Weyr, but it was mainly because they never doubted she would make a right choice, not because they particularly liked her.

"Good morrow, Weyrleader." R'til was not normally very formal with T'voc, but it was a belief of his that respect should at least be shown in salutation and valediction.

"And a good morning to you, too." T'voc plopped down onto the sand with a sigh. "How's Krig?" It was a measure of their familiarity that the Weyrleader referred to R'til's dragon with such irreverence. But R'til only smiled, for it was the name he had told T'voc to use.

"He's fine," he replied nonchalantly, turning his gaze out to the water. A smallish brown dragon – Krigeleth – flopped lazily about in the foam, having just bathed himself. "He's itching to be out on Search, though. He knows about the new clutch, of course."

"Of course," T'voc laughed. All dragons about a Weyr knew immediately when a new clutch was laid there. "Well, actually, that's why I'm here."

"I thought it might be."

"Yeah. Miyah wants you all out right away again. I think she's planning to make it a bit of a habit. You know Southern Ridge's queen is going to be rising about the same time as Marzgith if she matures at a normal rate. We've worked out the charts."

"Miyah really wants to beat Southern Ridge, doesn't she?"

"Yeah. I think she wanted to be there at the start. I don't have the whole story from her, but that's what I've managed to pick up. And if she can't be Weyrwoman of Southern Ridge, I think she wants to make what she is just as good. Or better."

"I see."

There was a pause then, and silently the two men watched Krigeleth bathe. Then, out of nowhere, T'voc asked:

"What is it?"

R'til turned to the Weyrleader, blinking. "What is what?"

"What haven't you told me?"

R'til swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, rather weakly. He'd been hoping to perhaps sidestep this issue, to perhaps do this in secret.

"Oh, come _on_," T'voc said, grinning. "We've known each other forever. Don't think I can't see when there's something you want to say and you don't know how. Or, perhaps, there's a question you want to ask? And you think the answer will be no?"

R'til stared for a moment, then chuckled, shaking his head. "Sorry."

"No, really, speak."

"Oh! No, not that. I'm just sorry I tried to hide anything from you."

T'voc just waited patiently for R'til to continue.

"It's not that big, really," the Searchrider said defensively, withering mockingly under his nearly-cool gaze. "It's just that Krig wants to conduct his Search in Southern Ridge. He reckons he sensed someone there last time. I didn't see this person, but... yeah. He wants this guy to be at the next Hatching."

"I see," T'voc replied carefully. "A Ridger."

"Y... yes. I don't care either way," R'til assured the Weyrleader hurriedly, "It's just Krig."

"No, it's all right," T'voc said thoughtfully. "I think it's all very right, in fact." At R'til's confused stare, he explained. "I think it would be good to Miyah. I think the idea of stealing a potential candidate from Southern Ridge would appease her."

R'til nodded slowly, then broke into a grin. "You're right, I think." Standing, he brushed the sand from his palms and behind. T'voc stood as well. Krigeleth was emerging from the waves, dripping but looking very pleased.

"You'd better be off, then," the Weyrleader said with a sly wink.

"Yup. See you around then. Uh, Weyrleader." R'til chuckled at the near-deviation from the ordinary. "And I promise to bring only the best candidates for you."

"OK then," T'voc laughed and turned away, already striding up to the Weyr. Probably to fetch another Searchrider.

R'til watched as he left, then turned to face his saturated brown with fond exasperation. Krigeleth was a bit of a rebel in terms of dragons, never really adhering to laws or conventions, and always wanting what those things said he could not have. It was an interesting benefit for a rider of such a dragon because, though humans were almost always forced to follow such intangible things, dragons were almost always excused from them. It gave R'til unusual advantages and privileges. Krigeleth realised all this was happening, and took ruthless advantage of it. Whilst thoroughly enjoying himself, of course.

Now the petite brown bowed his wedge-shaped head to nudge his rider, leaving a large triangular wet patch on his wher-hide clothing. R'til laughed.

__

I need to be dry, Krig. We're going between_._

I thought so. But I need to dry first.

R'til gave an exaggerated sigh. _All right then. Hurry up._

Sehrem woke slowly, dreading yet another day of nothingness.

His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light that seeped in a rough c-shape around the heavy wooden door that marked the only opening into his small abode. With gradual, almost reluctant movements, he rose from his hard cot and shuffled to the single table that stood pushed against the far wall. He groped about in the semi-darkness until he found a loaf of partially moulded bread and a bowl of rotten fruit. He tore a stale chunk from the loaf and snatched away one of the firmest fruits before turning to the door. Placing both bread and fruit in one hand, he used the other to find the handle and turn it. He stepped back and pulled the door open, blinking as the light of the sun poured into the tiny room he called home.

He didn't even bother to close the door as he turned to the left and began making his way though the debris that was strewn about the alleyway. He tore a chunk of bread away with his teeth as he vacantly maneuvered his way around the rubbish. A broken chair lay here, a pile of rubbish lay spilt there. It was a dangerous and difficult path, with many rusted and sharp things protruding randomly all around, but Sehrem's eyes were not fixated on the ground as they perhaps should have been. They darted from window to lofty window above, constantly checking for random falling objects.

The richer holders lived high above, and it was from their houses that this trash came. Sehrem seriously doubted they even knew he, or the few others in his position, even existed. No, because they were completely insignificant. They may not have been in the past, but what was the past of poor rats to important aristocrats like them?

Soon he was in the clear of the windows and the alley, and was licking the breadcrumbs off his fingers. He was running out of food. He'd have to get some more soon. It was always a frightening thing, the knowledge that your next morsel of food could lead to your capture. But then, perhaps capture was underrated. He'd probably get more or better food in jail, and he wouldn't have to live under the noses of rich people. And if he was executed..? Well, he'd thought about killing himself many a time, but he'd refrained from it with the excuse that suicide was a reserved luxury for dragonless men.

He sat down on the curb facing the gather square, as he did most days, and began to eat his fruit. He thought it was an apple, but it may have been a plum. Regardless, it tasted all right.

A shout was raised, and a shadow passed over the sun. Sehrem thought for a moment it might be a cloud bearing Thread, but as he glanced up, the sun was once again uncovered, and he was forced to squint to discern the shape. Of course, it was a dragon, but of what sort, and why? His dark eyes followed the silhouette of dragon and rider as it circled overhead, overshooting the square before wheeling around to come to a lazy stop in the centre of the dusty field. It was a brown one, unless that shade was actually bronze and bronzes were smaller than Sehrem had always thought. No, he'd think of it as a brown.

The rider vaulted off the beast's neck and squinted through the dust his dragon had kicked up with his wings, looking from side to side. A crowd began to gather around him, men and women and a _lot_ of children. They kept a respectable girth about him, but the hopeful look on their faces was unmistakable – the man was on Search. Suddenly the man looked sharply at one of the children in the circle. A young boy, probably no older than eleven Turns, stepped forward under the man's gaze, chin high, and said something in his high, youthful voice. There was a silent pause before the dragonman laughed, placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and nodded.

The cheering and general whispering that erupted made it obvious that this boy had just been elected as a candidate. Sehrem nodded silently, chewing on the soft flesh of the fruit that lay between his teeth. A Searchrider. Funny, he hadn't seen this one around here before. Perhaps the old one died? It didn't seem likely. He'd been young, perhaps only a Turn or two older than Sehrem himself.

The crowd dispersed then, all of them but the boy. The dragonman led the boy to his brown and helped him up to the neck, strapping him in before vaulting up and behind him. But for some reason or another the dragon did not take off, even when the rider actually _kicked_ the creature's shoulder. Looking thoroughly irritated, the rider dismounted, said something to the boy, then began to walk away from them.

At first, the man's path only led vaguely in Sehrem's direction, but it wasn't long before his course had changed to heading straight in his direction. Sehrem watched wide-eyed as the man's eyes slowly focused on him and a slow smile formed on his face. This – this was not good. Not good at all. No, he didn't like this.

"Do you want to be a dragonman?"

Sehrem looked up at the man. He was now standing above him, towering over him, a knowing smirk on his wide lips.

"Well?"

Dumbly, Sehrem shook his head. What in sharding blazes was this? He couldn't be a dragonrider. He was Sehrem. He was short, dark, quiet and depressed. This man here showed what one had to be to Impress – tall, strong, fair and friendly. Not a thing like Sehrem.

"What do you mean, no?" The man's smile changed to a slight frown. "Of course you do. What could you possibly want more than a dragon of your own?"

Sehrem did not reply. He was so accustomed to holding his silence. Not that he could have spoken if he'd tried. He had no answer. He didn't want anything more than a dragon of his own, but he didn't want a dragon of his own at all. He just didn't want anything, really. What could possibly heal his past? Or take it away? The answer was, of course, nothing. So he wanted nothing.

The man was beginning to look profoundly irritated. He gave a short grunt, then his eyes lost focus. Sehrem thought for a moment he was going to faint, and stood quickly, ready to assist a dragonrider at need. But no, the rider remained standing. It was very confusing, and Sehrem did not sit back down. He didn't like feeling so short compared to this man. Sitting didn't help that particular cause.

The dragonman sighed, his eyes focusing once more. He ran a hand through his chestnut hair. "Well, Krig says you're the one we came here for. Not that Rowin kid, apparently. So really, you have to come."

Sehrem stared silently up at the man. Who was Krig? But... how could they have come here for _him_? He couldn't be a dragonrider! He just wasn't made for that stuff!

"Is there anything you particularly want to stay here for?" The guy sounded exasperated now.

An easy question. Sehrem emphatically shook his head.

"Well, why don't you want to come?" The man threw up his hands in resignation, though Sehrem knew he wouldn't be giving up that easily. "Look. We provide for our candidates, so you don't have to worry about us starving you or leaving you to sleep out in the open. You... ugh! Shards! You get a go at Impressing a dragon! I don't understand it! Why don't you want to be a dragonrider? If you don't succeed, you can stay on and try again. But you will Impress, because Krig brought me all the way here for you."

Sehrem paused. The food and shelter sounded tempting. He was about to agree when the man started off again.

"You get to be a dragonrider! There are so many... shells. Did you see that little gang that gathered by me when I landed? They _all_ wanted their kids to be found on Search. Krig didn't want any of them to come, but I had to mollify them. That Rowin boy is just the most likely of that unlikely group. Maybe when he's a little older he might be a dragonman. But... I have to get to my point. _Everyone wants to be a dragonrider_. Why don't you?"

Finally he'd stopped talking. Maybe now Sehrem could get in a word or two edgewise. "I do."

The man looked puffed up, as if he'd been ready to explode. He blinked, then exhaled heavily. "Pardon?"

Sehrem took a deep breath, readying himself to repeat the lie. "I do."

"You _want_ to be a dragonrider now?"

"Yes."

The man literally slapped himself on the forehead. Visibly attempting to calm himself, he nodded. "OK. All right then. You can be." He took a deep breath, let it out. Then he thrust his hand at Sehrem in official greeting. "I'm R'til."

Sehrem took the hand, letting the dragonman shake it and break the gesture. "Sehrem," he replied quietly.

"OK, Sehrem. Follow me."

He led Sehrem across the all-too-familiar square towards the waiting brown. The newest candidate could feel unfriendly eyes boring into him from all directions. He wasn't much liked about here, and here public enemy number one was found on Search.

The brown suddenly lowered his head and looked straight at the surprised Sehrem with bizarre blue compound eyes. Sehrem came to an abrupt halt and stared.

"Come on. This is Krigeleth. You need to get up on his neck now. That's where we ride dragons."

Sehrem nodded. He already knew this. R'til offered linked hands as a leg-up, and Sehrem clambered up onto the brown's neck, just behind the other boy. Rowin. The kid didn't pay the slightest bit of attention to him. In fact, he markedly ignored him. Seemed to make a point of it. Well, Sehrem was used to it.

R'til was behind him moments later, and suddenly the wings of the great brown beast were beating steadily downwards, and then they were aloft in a whirl of dust that choked all three riders.

Then it seemed as if the tiniest moment had passed and they were over the ocean, the Hold a speck to their right.

"Take a deep breath!" R'til shouted over the buffeting wind. It was hard to breathe in at all as the wind tried to force itself into his lungs, but somehow Sehrem managed to follow the orders. He could tell what was about to happen.

Then they were _between_.

At least, it had to be _between_. It fit the description in the song so perfectly.

__

Black, blacker, blackest,

Cold beyond all things...

And that's exactly what it was. Pitch blackness. Sehrem could not see a thing, not the boy before him, not the dragon under him. Not even his own nose. There was nothing except what a blind man would see. And there was no sound – he was deaf. No smell. No air! He was drowning! He couldn't feel the dragon between his legs, the boy in front of him, the man behind him. There was nothing!

And then suddenly, there was _everything._

The world hit Sehrem like a blow. He squinted as his pupils contracted again, adjusting to the light. He was very nearly knocked off the dragon by the sudden wind – he wasn't fortunate enough to have the strapping Rowin did.

Strangely, he felt a sense of profound disappointment. The world – or whatever it was – of _between_ was not a bad thing, not as such. It was the embodiment of emptiness, and Sehrem thought he might not mind dying there. Indeed, he'd thought for a moment he would die, and he hadn't been upset about it.

Nonetheless, they were now over the Weyr. He frowned. It was closer to the water than he'd been told.

"Welcome to Coast Weyr!" R'til called over the bluster.

Oh.


	4. Chapter Three

Malec sat down on the cot with a heavy sigh.  
He felt the padded surface sink beneath his weight with a tiny squeaked groan of protest. Malec frowned down at the white coverings. He couldn't imagine the terrible complaint it would emit had anyone with any sort of great mass settled upon it. Was this the standard here?  
He'd just arrived here at the weyr, dropped pointedly off by his Search rider here at the candidate barracks. He hadn't been carrying anything at all. Malec nearly grinned as He recalled the surprise on the Search rider's face when He came out, demanding that if He was to be taken away, it would be at that very moment. Of course, Malec had to replace Him as soon as He had the point across. People, even dragonriders (or especially dragonriders), talked. Such strange variances in temperament would be noted, and divulged. At least an outburst like that one had been explicable. Any more, however, and He would be discovered.  
Malec had vaulted off the dragon's neck, deferentially bowing and wide-eyed. However, He had been not thinking thoughts to match such actions. He'd been inwardly sneering at the oh-so-superior rider that had brought him here. He did not share the lack of trust for dragonriders that his father and siblings possessed. He did, however, think that this specific rider had thought that Malec was unsuitable for the candidacy his dragon had apparently so emphatically suggested. Thought Malec too weak. Of course, the rider was right. But He, He was far stronger than that. The rider could not see it. Was far too stupid. Everyone was. Nobody could see Him.  
He recalled what the rider had told him. He was on the roster for dragon duty. Not a bad break. Malec would be able to handle that. Though the boy was used to working about the home, he'd never had a huge share. Even when his siblings turned on Him as one and tossed Him the worst of their jobs, it didn't amount to that much. And dragon duty was a fairly cushy job. Besides, they would both get a bit of experience around dragons, right? That would be useful.  
And so Malec sat on the cot, bored but expectant, awaiting either company or a dragonrider in need of a job to be done. It wasn't long before the sound of advancing footsteps came echoing down the empty corridor.

A young man walked in two steps before noticing Malec sitting there. He was not much taller than Malec himself, though an absolute contrast in terms of colour. Where Malec was nearly entirely white, this one was strangely dark.

He stared at Malec.

Malec stared at him.

Not a word was spoken between them.

"Right. Are you all right to stay here and wait for another rid–"

A man came up behind the boy, and the boy jumped, whirling around. "I–"

"Sorry," the man – clearly a rider – said to Malec, cutting the dark boy off. He walked into the room and candidly looked him over. "You a candidate?"

Malec nodded.

"What's your name?"

"Malec," he replied softly.

The dragonman paused, then shook his head in resignation. "Not another quiet one," he muttered in a voice quite audible in the silence. "OK," he continued more loudly, "Are you on dragon duty?"

Malec nodded again.

"OK. This is Sehrem. He'll be sharing this room with you. You can go do dragon duty together or something. Whatever makes you happy. Now, I'm off."

And the dragonman was gone.

Silence reigned.

A candidate too, hey? Well, there were two options here, and only one was acceptable. Keep Malec.

The boy – Sehrem – moved, making his way over to a cot and lying down on it. It was the cot on the opposite end of the room to Malec's. Typical. Though somehow, Malec could sense that it wasn't an act to remove Malec from him, but rather to remove himself from Malec. As if he knew he'd be pushed away eventually, so he pulled away to prevent it.

Malec stood then, making his way over to Sehrem's cot. If this was the case, it helped the strength of the Malec façade to make a nice gesture. If not, and he actually wanted to get away from Malec, well, it was his tough luck, wasn't it?

He sat down on the cot, near Sehrem's outstretched legs. The boy's eyes opened, staring at Malec in surprise.

"Where are you from?"

It was a nice enough question, friendly, open. It was spoken softly, for that was Malec's sickeningly gentle way, but it was amiable. There was only a small pause before the darker boy answered.

"Southern Ridge Hold."

Well, whether to Him or Malec, that was a surprise. The Searchriders must have flown far and wide indeed for candidates this time around.

"You?"

"Filbrun Hold."

Sehrem nodded slowly and rather disinterestedly. That was an expected answer, as Filbrun was beholden to Coast Weyr.

Malec paused, wondering what to say next. He wasn't very good at idle chit-chat. "How old are you?" It wasn't a very flowing conversation, but it was a conversation nonetheless.

Sehrem looked to his left then closed his eyes. "I've sixteen Turns," he replied dully.

Malec blinked in surprise. This guy... he didn't look _young_, but, well, not old either. He looked so strange, his age was indeterminate. But he hadn't thought Sehrem was actually that close to his age.

"I've fifteen," Malec told him. Sehrem responded, opening his eyes and staring at him.

"You don't look that old."

It was hard to keep Him at bay at that remark. "I know."

There was a prolonged moment of silence during which the two candidates stared at each other. Then Sehrem gave a small sigh and flipped over, lying on his side with his back to Malec. Malec realised the brief conversation was over with contempt. How dare he just cut off the communication like that? Nonetheless, he stood and made his way over to the door and out. Malec was such a pushover, He thought derisively. He had to go.

Korelia looked up abruptly, and knew immediately what was happening.

"FARITH?"

She stood quickly, pushing her stool to the ground and running out of the dining hall.

V'lan stood more calmly from his seat beside where she'd been sitting. He ran his eyes over the crowd gathered around the table. M'kar, S'nir, R'pil and W'gan all stared back at him, setting down cutlery as they did so. A very strange light glittered in those four pairs of eyes: hatred, hope, jealousy, awe, lust, eagerness and giddy happiness, all blended together. Though he was the most experienced of all the bronzeriders here, his green eyes reflected that same combination.

M'kar stood suddenly, and quickly began to stride out of the room. His Halth had answered the call of the rising gold first, and he was off to survey the blooding. Then W'gan was gone, R'pil and then S'nir, so that V'lan was the only one left. This was normal – Remyth liked to bide his time. And then a deep bellow rang from above, and V'lan was striding out of the hall.

Korelia stood just outside, clutching her stomach in a vain attempt to ease the tightness there. Her strange blue eyes were wide, fixated on the frame of the nearly full-grown gold flying over a runner herd, screeching deafeningly. Farith swooped, clutching with sharp talons onto one unfortunate beast, before landing on a ledge on the mountain. Her eyes whirled rapidly crimson as she arched her golden neck and tore the head off the runner, tossing the morsel aside and letting it roll in a bloody path down the cliff.

Remembering her task, Korelia gasped. "Blood only, Farith! Blood _only!_"

The golden beast snapped her head around to glare defiantly at her rider. She gave a shrill cry of anger.

Korelia felt strangely torn. She wanted to feel the warmth of hot blood down her throat... but no! That was _Farith_! Korelia wanted her dragon to blood the kill only, so she could rise and give those pitiful bronzes a flight to remember!

"BLOOD ONLY!"

One last screech and Farith violently turned back to her kill. Her massive jaws clamped firmly about the meat, dragged it up...

And the hot, fresh blood flowed down her welcoming throat, warming her gut, giving vital energy.

Korelia was shaking, feeling ready to collapse, when she felt a supporting hand reach around her shoulders. "Keep with her. That's only one beast. And she hasn't flown yet. Keep with her! She needs you now." Who was that, muttering in her ear? Such a familiar voice...

The thought was weak and short-lived. Farith dove for another kill, made it, and carried it to the ledge. Again she blooded it, then went for a third. The third digested, Farith was ready. She tossed her golden head back, bellowed loudly, and took off.

Immediately after her came three bronzes, then another moments later, then two more came last. The very final dragon was Remyth, lazily following in a way that looked nothing like chasing, though his eyes whirled purple with lust.

Like a bullet Farith shot through the sky, far away from her pursuers. Korelia was down below, focusing on her gold with every ounce of her strength. Her eyes followed Farith's movements even when the queen was hidden above the clouds. Men bunched around her, pressing near her, sweaty and aroused, but she barely noticed it as her mind followed Farith's.

Farith cave a contemptuous cry, beckoning, taunting on her hunters. They thought they could catch her? They had another thing coming! Coming to a height well above the thin cloud cover, she flipped backwards, sailed upside-down for a moment, before turning fully and free-falling into the unsuspecting bronzes. Roars of surprise and dismay erupted from the lust-driven beasts as she plummeted past them all and they changed direction as quickly as they were able.

Remyth was at the bottom of the line – Remyth was near her! A rumbling croon came from his throat as he sped up, nearing his prize. Farith flew away, soaring across the land, attempting to outpace the massive bronze. Fortunately her youth made this possible, and if she had been any bigger, she probably wouldn't have managed it. But as it was, she flew just faster than Remyth, and was away again. She tilted her wings and took off into the open blue sky, all five bronzes trailing behind.

Remyth was fully excited now, and so did not ease up on his speed again, but rather took up the chase with all speed. Korelia felt a hand reach across her, feeling blindly at her. Her excitement built. Every muscle in her body was taut, responding to this moment. She would not be caught! Not yet!

Farith was again at a lofty height, speeding without tiring along the top of the cloud cover. Her beating wings stirred the feathery white of the cloud, causing their tips to become moist. A shrill cry was raised behind her. Toguth tossed his head, his multi-faceted eyes rapidly swirling with vivid mauve. His wings beat ever faster. Korelia felt a hand grasp at her, dragging at her, painfully holding on. Then abruptly Toguth slowed, and began to fall from the sky. The aching hold on Korelia was released abruptly. Farith gave a bugle of victory. But there were four left! All behind her.

The queen abruptly dipped into the clouds, and was lost from all sight. The four followed blindly into the cold, wet world of white. Farith dipped out of the cloud again, but the four bronzes did not follow. Bellows of confusion could be heard from the ground. The men about Korelia grasped at her in their confusion, desperate to hold on to her should she, too, be lost.

Farith silently glided lower towards the ground, the victorious feeling she experienced clear in her manner if not in her voice. Arrogantly she glided in lazy circles in the air, revelling in her own glory but exceedingly frustrated that no dragon could match her enough to catch her in flight.

Korelia scowled, but her arousal was not diluted. She writhed under the men's fondling hands, inviting them, challenging them. And then there was another pair of hands on her, exploring, testing. She responded with a groan of delight. Another bronze to attempt! Sensuously she squirmed under the touch, impatient for the flight to continue.

Farith was unaware, however, of such a development. Frustrated, she bellowed a jeer at the bronzes. The effect was immediate. As one the four dragons came rocketing down. Rath did not stop, and went plummeting to the ground, exhausted. A pair of hands, the ones about Korelia's neck and shoulders, disappeared. Korelia gave a wordless shout of angry triumph. Farith looked upwards at the three remaining dragons, crooning tantalisingly. Then she turned...

Only to find herself facing a dragon!

His eyes were speedily whirling with deep violet as he gazed at her, advanced on her...

With a keen to signify defeat, she felt his long, sinuous neck brush against her own...

The newcome hands felt around Korelia's slender frame more firmly, more confidently...

A screech erupted, and another was there, ramming the one who had claimed her! The two flew wildly, bellowing at each other, locking talons and releasing. Farith roared and began to fly away again. The other two aspirants gave chase, and gave little sign of tiring. Korelia felt two pairs of hands, reaching about her with equal strength, pulling at her.

Thoroughly annoyed with both the others – why were they not chasing her? – she abruptly turned and began a nose-dive right between the two. The chasing pair continued in their pursuit, though they lagged now. The fighting pair paid no notice, even when she shrilly trumpeted an announcement of her approach, and so did not pull away from each other. She dove for them, talons outstretched. Korelia screamed in rage. Still they did not pull apart!

Farith barrelled right into the pair, sending all three of them falling in a confused bunch made of wings, tails and splayed limbs. Farith tumbled blindly through the air, surrounded by clawing bodies. Then... there was a neck about her own! Pulling at her, dragging her close. Her eyes lidded over, and her body conformed to the one dragging her in, accepting him as the victor.

Korelia curved her body about under the rough touch of the rider of the dragon who had won. Her eyes could not focus; she closed them. A tall body pressed against her, forcefully pushing at her. Then she was slammed against the stone of the mountain wall, and her head spun. And yet she kissed at him just as fiercely, running her tongue along the inside of his mouth, reaching with her hands up his coat, along his back. She groaned as he did the same, then felt along her front. Then they were pulled apart, and she blindly reached for him, but she was led atop a dragon. She did not understand what was happening, but soon she was on a ledge. The ledge to her weyr! And then he was there, holding her, stroking her, wanting her. She responded to him with equal lust, dragging him in, dragging him to her cot and down on top of her.


End file.
